


Continuo

by AvinRyd



Category: Seraphina - Rachel Hartman
Genre: F/F, Gen, Multi, No Love Triangle Intended, Not when endgame is OT3 goodness, Pre-Jannoula Lars, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-10
Updated: 2017-09-10
Packaged: 2018-12-26 00:02:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12047085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AvinRyd/pseuds/AvinRyd
Summary: con·tin·u·o/kənˈtinyəˌwō/nounnoun: continuo; plural noun: continuos; noun: basso continuo; plural noun: basso continuos(in baroque music) an accompanying part that includes a bass line and harmonies, typically played on a keyboard instrument and with other instruments such as cello or bass viol.





	Continuo

Without Seraphina, Castle Orison seemed to lose a dimension. Queen Glisselda couldn’t quite put her finger on what, exactly, was the difference, but something was off. She considered asking her dear fiancee and cousin, but Lucian would no doubt pull it into philosophical metaphors and probably quote scripture, because that’s what Lucian did. She didn’t have the patience for that, not today. No, maybe to put in terms more similar to the Second Court Composer herself? The object of such contemplation?

It was, Glisselda decided, like there was an instrument missing in the ensemble that was the castle; or more accurately, the ensemble that was her life. With Phina gone, there was no continuo to hers and Lucian’s duet. Dutifully, they played their parts, melodies intertwining with intervals and movements perfectly synchronized, but without the harmony beneath, it all seemed thin and paltry. 

Some days, when she could get away from politics and propriety and war, she would sit at her harpsichord and dither. Seraphina had never taught her the finer points of the continuo part. She’d reasoned, when would Glisselda be called upon to play in an ensemble that required it? The numbers beneath a flute solo meant nothing to the young queen, but with a discerning ear and a book she may have stolen from her erstwhile music teacher’s rooms, she tried. Similarly, she tried to fill the void scarcely a month had made apparent. She made little progress in either arena.

One mid-afternoon, in a fit of frustration at both draconic ideas of ruling and musical rules of harmony, Glisselda swept herself off towards Viridius’s suite. The festival of St. Ida, with its celebrations within Castle Orison and without, was fast approaching; Viridius would be up to his eyeballs in preparations, she knew, but perhaps Lars could find some time in his schedule to indulge a Queen’s fancies. Holding queries about progress of the war machines before her like a shield, Glisselda inquired Lars’s location and tried not to scurry out of the gout-plagued composer’s presence after. _A Queen does not “scurry,”_ she told herself. _At best, she “hastens,” even when fleeing the presence of her grouchy ex-music teacher._

As Viridius had snapped, Glisselda found Lars atop the castle’s eastern wall. It did take a moment to find him, considering he was ten feet in the air straddling a support of his latest—what had he called it? Trebuchet?—and it took a moment longer for Glisselda to snag his attention.

“Lars!” she called above a sudden rush of wind, “Lars! I wondered if I might-” another gust caught at her voluminous cloud of skirts and buffeted her back a step. “-might have a word with you!”

With a grace no one ever expected from the large Samsamese man, Lars swung down from his creation to land nimbly at Glisselda’s feet. He sank into a low bow, giving full courtesy in the style of his homeland. “Your Mejesty, your presence is an honor,” he greeted in heavily-accented Goreddi, “how mey I help you?”

“I came to assess your progress on these-” she gestured at the construction behind him, “-war machines you’ve been building. Can you give me an appraisal?”

Lars seemed to light up from the inside. Eagerly, he extended an arm to usher the Queen along the castle battlements. Two points of gold made their way down the line of machines, Lars explaining the mathematics of his improved pyria sling, Glisselda casting a critical eye on wooden elements of construction; Lars extrapolating on saar-provided methods of fireproofing even the driest wood, Glisselda cataloguing the names of said dragons to reach out to in a more formal capacity later. Eventually, they reached the northeastern tower, where the castle walls fell away and opened to the city of Lavondaville proper.

“I hev actually been meaning to speak to Your Mejesty about the city’s defences,” Lars said, moving to climb the tower stairs, “If I mey, it is easier to show this from above.”

Glisselda nodded her assent and together they ascended to the tower’s top. The wind had died down considerably, to Glisselda’s great relief; she no longer had to cling to the battlements for fear of blowing away. The city sprawled beneath them, visibly teeming with life even from this distance. Open-air markets milled with shoppers, people scurried in little lines along streets like ants, Quighole seemed to pulse with the movements of too-crowded saar going about their business. The sheer enormity of what they were going to war to defend built pressure behind Glisselda’s breast, and apparently had affected Lars in some way as well, for he said,

“In an addition to our castle defences, I am meaning to ask about setting some sort of protection at the north border of the city. If the fighting comes south and the Old Ard cannot be stoppedt by our Loyalists, thet will be the first to be hit. So many homes mey be destroyed, so...” He trailed off.

Glisselda was quiet a long moment, then, “Yes, that seems wise. What do you have in mind?”

Apparently prepared for this question—had he planned on seeking audience with her soon?—he produced a parchment, neatly rolled and tied with twine, and unfurled it. Drawn on it in charcoal was a detailed sketch of Lavondaville’s northern perimeter and the lands just beyond. Small ‘x’s and circles were placed where trebuchets and ballistae might be placed, and Lars lowered the parchment to point out the locations more exactly. He’d obviously put a great deal of thought into this plan and it touched Glisselda more than she could say. Goredd was not his home, after all. That seemed insensitive to say, though, so aloud she said,

“I approve of the idea, certainly. Tomorrow, I will call together Lucian and our other defence councilors to discuss the logistics and such for the project.” At Lars’s move to hand her the parchment, she stopped him, “You will, of course, be present to explain your plan in full and be party to all of the preparations.”

He looked ready to protest, but then seemed to remember exactly who she was and bowed. No words passed his lips and Glisselda didn’t press. Lars was, as she understood it, often a man of few words even in his native tongue. In companionable silence then, they watched the city below breathe. Faintly, cathedral bells tolling the hour reached their ears and two pairs of pale eyes fixed on the spires of St. Gobnait’s. Lars’s megaharmonium lived in that church, Glisselda knew, but her most musical memory of that place was of Seraphina and her flute sending off Uncle Rufus in a fashion more beautiful and intimate than the princess had believed possible.

Still caught up in that vein of thought, she asked, “Lars, how long have you known Seraphina?”

“Thet depends,” he replied, “I only met her, in person, just before midwinter. But she has been in my mindt, her music I’m meaning, for many years.” He seemed to listen to the wind for a moment, then continued, “Do you know her well, Mejesty?”

When Glisselda laughed, the sound wasn’t quite merry. “I don’t know. I’ve known her not even a month more than you, by your first criteria. And please, Glisselda is fine.” Despite their height and the dizziness it caused, she closed her eyes to better encapsulate the feelings she wanted to put into words. “You say her music has always been in your head, due to some quirk of your ityasaari connection? Regardless. Has she always played with such a...captivating quality? Like you can’t bear to stop listening, like it might break you to try?”

With her eyes closed, Glisselda didn’t see the understanding, almost fond expression that overtook Lars’s face. She heard the softness, though, when he replied simply, “Yes, always.”

The spring chill began to creep its way into her bones. Still, it was peaceful up here and she was loath to return to being Queen Glisselda once more. Perhaps sensing her resolution starting to form, Lars spoke as if to continue her first line of questioning. “And how long hev you been lov- Neyt, in Gorshya it would be: how long hev you been _in love_ with her?”

Air turned to ice in her lungs even as heat trickled from the back of her neck into her face and down her spine. A stunningly dissonant sensation she had no ability to process because Lars had just- He’d said- 

“H-how did you know?” she choked out, “Does everyone know?” _Am I so obvious with my heart that any can see?_ Her hands clutched the stone of the battlements once more, needing balance for an entirely different reason now. Violet-blue eyes were open now, wide and horrified, staring up at the piper next to her, almost pleading.

He met her gaze with a gentle serenity that was perfectly matched to the soft grey of his own eyes. Mouth still curved in that soft expression, he turned to stare out at the city once more, bracing strong arms on the stone before them to lean just the slightest bit forward, as if he might fly.

“People look a certain way when they want somethingk, or someone, they think they cannot hev.” he said, the wind stealing much of the sound and leaving Glisselda straining to catch his words. “I used to see thet look every time I looked in a mirror. I saw it in Viridius’s eyes for weeks before we began speaking of what our hearts were truly feeling.” 

He left the examples there, possibly out of respect for her feelings, but she knew what would come next; they’d both seen that look on the face of Prince Lucian Kiggs before Seraphina’s departure. Between that fact and the shock of her secret being so brought to light, a light she herself hadn’t dared face yet, Glisselda hadn’t the words to reply. In his turn, Lars didn’t press for one. After a moment—a minute, an hour?—her overwhelmed fog was broken by the warmth of his hand atop her own.

“In my country,” he began, turning so his words were aimed toward her once more, “Saint Dann is condemned as a heretic. When I came to Goredd, I found readingk his untainted scriptures to be a comfort. Another comfort was in finding friends who feldt the same.” The pressure on her hand increased, then disappeared. He turned to leave, but said over his shoulder,

“Even as you are my Queen, I like to be thinking we are friends as well, Glisselda.”

And he was gone. The spring wind still brought a chill, but from her hand and heart warmth began to spread. She stared at the trapdoor he’d disappeared through, then at the castle proper where politics and propriety and war awaited. From the square below, a troubadour plied the city with his songs, and in a flurry of dazed irritation Glisselda realized she’d never asked Lars about how to read a continuo part.

She’d just have to seek him out and ask later. That’s what friends did, right? Feeling suddenly lighter, she made her way down the tower stairs and across the walls, slowly replacing layers of “Queen” as she went. Later, when Goredd could spare her for a few minutes, she would remove the layers once more and confront that newly-shed light, but for now she was Queen Glisselda of Goredd and she had a part to play; and even without the full realization beneath, play she would.

**Author's Note:**

> Because the gays who gay together stay together.
> 
> \--
> 
> Find me on tumblr @themodethecitythesoul for other shenanigans


End file.
